May 11, 1983. A date etched in the hearts and minds of every Aberdeen supporter.

For many it represents a distant occasion dramatically played out before they were born.

But for fans of my vintage it was the high point in a breathtaking few years in which Alex Ferguson’s side ruled the roost both at home and across Europe.

And for 14,000 of us it was the night on which we stood, soaked to the skin, on the terracing of the Ullevi Stadium in Gothenburg as those Dons players took on the might of Real Madrid – and won.

In fact, we didn’t just beat them, we destroyed them. The history books show a 2-1 victory after extra time but watch the DVD and you’ll see a match almost entirely dominated by Fergie’s team.

Alex Ferguson and members of his team celebrate winning the European Cup in May 1983

The European Cup Winners’ Cup run came a few years before I began in the media. Back then I worked for the Clydesdale Bank and followed Aberdeen home and away. It was a glorious time, Fergie adding the final components and instilling an unshakable self-belief and will to win that became the hallmark of his players.

The Dons had been drawn in a preliminary round and disposed of Swiss side Sion with an 11-1 aggregate triumph, after which their manager Leon Walker predicted Fergie’s team could go all the way in the tournament. In those sunny days of autumn 1982, the Final in Gothenburg could not have been further from our minds.

But Walker was to be proved remarkably astute and within four minutes of the semi-final first leg we all knew it was on.

It was at that point, with the Dons already leading Waterschei 2-0, I decided I had to be at the Final. The problem was I couldn’t afford it so I threw myself on the mercy of my boss Ken McLauchlin, who agreed to grant me a personal loan purportedly for new carpets and a fridge!

The finance settled, I called the P&O hotline to secure my place on the St Clair ferry only to discover it was fully booked.

I was 22 and had never been abroad. I had never boarded an airplane and was petrified by the very thought of flying. But if I was going to get to Gothenburg it was the only way. So I bit the bullet and provided much entertainment to my fellow passengers as I shrieked and screamed my way across the North Sea.

I was in a group “vox-popped” by a reporter and confidently predicted a Dons win. But I wasn’t confident. Not at all. I didn’t believe we would beat Real Madrid.

The day of the game was one long, interminable wait. We began the march towards the Ullevi early, joining hundreds of others of supporters clearly of the same mind. There was a fountain outside, a magnet for fans still floating along on the after-effects of the previous night’s drinking and we all ended up cavorting in it.

When the gates opened we poured in. Banners were set out, prime vantage points secured.

Ours was in line with the spot from which John Hewitt would make history a few hours later.

My memories of the game itself are limited. In fact it was only when reviewing the DVD as part of my research for the book that I realised just how impressive the Dons had been.

I do remember Eric Black’s volley that crashed off the bar just four minutes in and I certainly remember the opening goal, Black spinning after McLeish’s header had got stuck in the mud and hooking the ball into the net.

There was the disappointment of the penalty equaliser, a hammer blow after such a bright opening – and my fears began to rise.

The mindset of the Aberdeen players was, however, different and their self-belief was finally borne out in the 112th minute.

Peter Weir dispossessed Juanito, skipped by a couple of challenges and fed Mark McGhee on the left wing. He surged on to it and swung the ball into the area. It cleared Stieleke’s head, the keeper having hesitated was caught in no-man’s land and there was Hewitt soaring through the air to head in.

A quick check just to make sure the ball was in then bedlam. The noise was deafening, grown men in tears. When it all finally settled down I must have been 20 yards away from my starting point.

The Dons survived that dramatic last-minute free-kick and the final whistle sounded seconds later. I remember the players running around in all directions, embracing and pumping fists. But most of all I remember Willie Miller stepping forward, wrestling the trophy from UEFA’s Artemio Franchi and holding it aloft in his right hand in the iconic pose that became his trademark.

The celebrations went on long into the night but they did so without me. I had one beer then retired to my room, lay on my bed in the dark and just reflected on the occasion.

Aberdeen are presented the European Cup Winners Cup in Gothenburg in 1983 (Photo: SNS)

In the midst of the euphoria we were brought back down to earth with the news that our friend Phil Goodbrand had collapsed during the match and later died. He was just 22. Sitting down all these years later I wanted to ensure Phil’s part in the story wasn’t forgotten, his death a counter balance to the tales of fun and laughter.

Like many other writers over the years I wanted to get to the bottom of the players’ success, to reveal the X-factor that made that side so special. But of course there wasn’t one, it was simply a set of unique circumstances that all somehow came together to produce the greatest Aberdeen team.

Every one of those guys gave of their time willingly, allowing me to peer into the inner sanctum, and get a flavour of what it was like to be inside that dressing room.

For someone who had watched them grow to become a dominant force in the game – that was a privilege I will never forget.